From the Dead

Norah Mcclintock

Description

Rennie is in Uruguay when his cousins discover a secret cache at their dead grandfather’s cottage. Thousands of dollars in foreign currencies. A mystifying notebook. Multiple passports, some obviously fake. A gun. A disguise. And a photo of some Nazis. Rennie’s mission: to find out whether there was more to the old man than anyone knew. Was he a spy? If he was, what did he do? And for whom? Did he help a Nazi war criminal escape justice? Rennie’s quest leads him to Argentina and then to Detroit, where he finds more questions than answers and more than one gun pointed—and fired—in his direction.


From the Dead is the sequel to both Slide, part of The Seven Prequels and Close to the Heel, part of Seven (The Series).

Sujets

• Jeunesse Aventure
• Argentine
• Uruguay
• Détroit (Michigan)
• Action
• Family
• Adventure
• Detroit
• Nazi crime
• Argentina
• Juvenilee Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Orca Book Publishers
• Date de parution: 01 octobre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781459805392
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

NORAH McCLINTOCK
FROM THE DEAD
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2014 Norah McClintock
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
McC LINTOCK , N ORAH, AUTHOR F ROM THE DEAD / N ORAH McC LINTOCK . (The seven sequels)
Issued in print and electronic formats. ISBN 978-1-4598-0537-8 ( pbk. ).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0538-5 ( pdf ).— ISBN 978-1-4598-0539-2 ( epub )
I. Title. PS 8575. C 62 F 76 2014 j c813’.54 c2014-901545-3 c2014-901546-1
First published in the United States, 2014 Library of Congress Control Number: 2014935394
Summary: Rennie finds out more than he ever wanted to know about his grandfather’s past when he investigates Nazi war criminals in Argentina and Detroit.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Design by Chantal Gabriell Cover photography by Getty Images, iStock, Dreamstime and CG Textures

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS PO Box 5626 , Stn. B Victoria, BC Canada V8R 6S4
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS PO Box 468 Custer, WA USA 98240-0468

www.orcabook.com Printed and bound in Canada.
17 16 15 14 • 4 3 2 1
To A.O. and B.R., for the gift of time.
TABLE OF CONTENT

ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
EXTRAS
TO SEE ALL OF THE COUSINS’ TRAVELS CHECK OUT THIS ONLINE MAP .
TOO SEE HOW ALL OF THE COUSINS ARE CONNECTED, CHECK OUT THIS FAMILY TREE.
ONE
If anyone had told me I’d be standing, by choice, ankle-deep in snow and ice in a crummy neighborhood in Detroit four nights after Christmas, I would have said they were crazy. First of all, I don’t know a single person in Detroit. Second, who in their right mind would choose Detroit as a destination, especially in winter? Third, who would choose to land in a neighborhood that, as far as I can see—which isn’t far because there are no streetlights—is on the downward slope to oblivion? Finally, who in his right mind would choose to subject himself to cold, dreary, depressed Detroit because of something that happened half a century ago and that no one—well, almost no one—remembered or even cared about?

But here I am, and it’s all my cousin Adam’s fault. I’ll get to that.
Right now I’m standing across the street from the house—the one I have the address for, the one that may (or may not) be the key to this whole thing. An old man and a dog are shuffling around a corner out of sight. I’m shivering in my jacket and a marked-down red-and-white Santa-type tuque that ordinarily would make me feel as conspicuous as an alligator in a wading pool. But the house I’m looking at, two stories, paint peeling off its clapboard siding, porch sagging, wooden steps barely visible beneath snow and ice, is the only lit-up place on the whole block. That’s because it’s also the only non-abandoned, non-condemned place on the block. It’s weird. I’m in the heart of a city. If this was Vancouver or Toronto, there would be houses on either side of the one I’m looking at, and houses next to them too, all the way down the block and around the corner. Same thing across the street. That’s what you expect in an urban neighborhood. But where I am right now is what used to be an urban neighborhood. The sidewalks are still here, although I bet they’re all cracked and broken under the thick layer of hard-packed snow, which no one has bothered to clear. The lampposts are still standing, but, as I said, the lights aren’t on. Most of the fixtures don’t even have bulbs in them. Intact bulbs, I mean. There’s a fire hydrant halfway down the block. I see its top peeking out of a heap of snow. There’s also a big metal container that looks like a mailbox, but it’s lying on its side and has been kicked so many times that there’s hardly a flat surface left. The only way I can see any of this is because there’s a clear sky overhead, and without the usual ambient light of a big city, a zillion stars are visible, along with a wedge of moon.

Since I’m here, I decide to get on with it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? I cross the street and climb the porch steps, gripping the hand railing so I don’t slip and fall. I make it to the top and almost wipe out on an ice patch on my way to the screenless screen door that does nothing to protect the scarred inner door. I feel around for a doorbell but don’t find one. So I knock. The sound—sleeve-wrapped knuckles on wood—is muffled, so I slide an already cold hand out from the protection of my jacket and rap again, harder this time. My knuckles sting from the cold and the contact.

No one answers.
There’s a light on. It’s the only one, as far as I can tell, and it’s right inside the door. But when I go up on tiptoe to peek through the tiny window near the top of the door, all I see are the front hall and a staircase to the second floor. There’s no sign of life.
I knock again.
I tell myself no one’s home. I tell myself I’ll come back tomorrow. But I can’t resist shifting to the right to peek in through the living-room window. At first I don’t see anything. It’s too dark inside. I press my nose against the glass and cup my hands around my eyes. That’s when I see it: a body lying on the living-room floor. I’m pretty sure it’s a man. In the light from the front hall, I see that he’s wearing a robe and pajamas. I also see a walker—one of the ones with wheels and a little basket attached to the front, the kind that old ladies shuffle behind at the mall. This walker is lying on its side, which makes me think its owner—an old man, or maybe a disabled man—fell down and is in trouble. Either that or he’s dead.
He’s definitely not moving.
I have a cell phone in my pocket. I could take it out and dial 9-1-1. But—don’t laugh—I did my homework before I came up here, and I know that it takes an average of thirty minutes to get a response from a 9-1-1 call in this town. It used to be different, but what used to be isn’t going to help me now. I wrench open the screen door and twist the handle of the inner door.
It’s locked.
So I apply my shoulder to it, you know, as in I throw myself against it, like a cop on a TV show.
Bad idea. If my shoulder could scream, it would wake the neighborhood.
I stumble backward, massaging what will probably turn into a massive bruise. That’s strike one, but I’m still at bat. I check out the door. It’s as decrepit as the rest of the house. And I happen to be wearing my favorite Docs—lace-ups with heavy soles and heels. So I aim my foot at the area to the immediate left of the door handle and kick it karate style.
The doorframe splinters. The door flies open.
I race inside.
The man on the floor—now that I’m up close, I see that he’s as ancient and rundown as the house—is warm to the touch, but I can’t tell if he’s breathing. I glance around for a light switch but don’t see one, and I don’t want to waste time looking for one. I press my ear close to the old man’s face. I feel a faint breath on my cheek. He’s alive.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
The old guy moans.
I fumble in my pocket for my phone.
The old guy’s eyes open.
“Help me up.” His voice is weak and wavery.
“Maybe I should call an ambulance,” I say. “Maybe you broke something.” Another thought occurs to me. “Do you have a heart condition, sir? Do you feel pain anywhere?” Pain is a symptom of a heart attack—isn’t it?
“Help me up,” he says. He moves to brace his hands on the floor.
“I don’t think that’s a good—”
He’s trying to push himself up, but he’s having trouble getting his arms to accept the weight he’s putting on them. But does that stop him? No, it does not.
I get to my feet, squat and slide my hands under his armpits, which, it turns out, are moist.
“Ready?”
He nods.
I start to pull him to his feet, thinking it will be easy. In his thick, heavy robe and what I assume are pajamas underneath, he looks kind of bulky. But his bony wrists and ankles and his long, thin face give me the impression that he’s all dried out and won’t be heavy. Getting him to his feet should be like swinging a little kid up into the air. But it isn’t. The old guy is dead weight. I have to try a second time, bracing my legs so I don’t strain my back. Up he comes. One of his hands clutches my arm. I’ll say one thing for him: he’s got a good, strong grip.
“My walker,” he says, wheezing.
I help him over to the nearest piece of furniture—a bookshelf—and get him t